A Certain Justice

That he had come to this knowledge, finally, rocked her, although she covered it – her tightened lips were all that betrayed it. 'I explained that to you, Abe. That was completely legitimate.'

'No,' he said. 'Chris Locke was prosecuting the case, and then he met you and the two of you became involved, wasn't that it?'

'No. None of this is it.'

'He represented the DA's office and dropped the charges, said there wasn't a case and you got to keep the money…'

'That's not true. This is…' She was standing up, but he took hold of her by the wrist, held her. She sat back down.

'But the money wasn't why you killed him. What he knew made you nervous maybe, but the records had been destroyed, cleaned up, sanitized. You had the same thing on each other. You could live with that.'

She looked at him, waiting. She'd give him nothing.

'Because he rejected you and he took up with Elaine. Because now he was really out of your control. He was going to play fast and loose with your daughter, your baby. You could handle that for yourself – but your daughter wasn't going to have it like you did. She was going to have it better. You were going to protect her because you knew what Chris Locke would do. It would be what he'd done to you.'

'And exactly what was that?'

'He'd use her, then throw her on the slag heap when she became… inconvenient.'

'I haven't been with him in years. I wouldn't…'

Glitsky nodded, the first admission.

'Besides, you can't prove any of this. I did not kill Chris, I did not launder any money. For God's sake, Abe, it's just…'

He stood, walked to the window next to the door and looked out, his back to her. The limo was parked right there.

He counted to fifteen, then without turning, said, 'The proof is in your hand, Loretta. You going to shoot me in the back? What are you going to say? That you thought I was a burglar? A rapist?'

He turned around.

Loretta was standing by the hallway bench, clutch purse in one hand, the small gun leveled at him in the other.

Glitsky's eyes went to it. 'I've got a good friend who's an attorney and I've left a letter with him,' he lied. 'It says that in the event of my death, they should compare the ballistics on the bullet that killed me with the one that killed Chris Locke.' He nodded at the gun. 'They're going to match, Loretta. And the letter goes on about a few of the other things we've talked about this morning. It also mentions your name.'

He took a step toward her. 'It's over, Loretta. It's over.'

Slowly she lowered the gun. 'I had to kill Chris. He was going to ruin my daughter… was already doing it…'

Glitsky nodded. He already knew this. 'I'm going to need to take that gun for evidence,' he said.

'You can't think I'm going to give you this gun.'

'I'd prefer it,' he said, 'but it doesn't really matter. I don't need it.'

'Without it you don't have any physical evidence. You don't have a case.' She took a step toward him, her expression set, tone low. 'We don't have to have this happen, Abe. I can throw it away, get rid of it…'

He reached into his pocket and pulled out the pocket recorder he always carried, turned it off, played back the last few moments, her admission that she had killed Locke. When he flicked it off, he held out his hand. 'The gun,' he said.

She gave it one last try. 'Abe. This won't work. Alan Reston won't prosecute me. You won't even get him to go to a judge for an arrest warrant.'

"That may be so. But I can arrest you for murder without a warrant. When I book you into county jail, the press will be there, and they'll ask me why and I'll tell them. And then Alan Reston will either have to prosecute or explain why he doesn't, which he can't do. And even if he doesn't, okay, then you get away with murder, but I've done my job.' Glitsky took a step toward her, his hand outstretched. 'Now either use that gun or give it to me.'

It took her a long moment, but finally she turned it barrel in and handed it to him. As he put it into his pocket, she asked him, 'What do you really want, Abe?'

'The same as I've always wanted, Loretta. I want to arrest my suspect. I want some protection for Kevin Shea.'

'And what do I get?'

Her singularity of purpose continued to impress him. It never ended. 'There's always a deal, Loretta, isn't there?'

She waited.

'You think I'm about to let you walk on a premeditated murder?'

'I don't know what you're going to do, Abe.' She stood in front of him. 'I'm telling you what I need, that's all. It's your decision.'

'Either way,' Glitsky said, 'you're dead politically.'

'Maybe.' Her eyes rested on him. 'You're such a fool,' she said, 'but we could have had it all.'

The doorbell rang, followed by a knock at the door. Another. 'Senator?' The limo driver.

'Do we have a deal, Abe?'

Another knock. 'Senator, we're ru

'I need your word, Abe.'

Glitsky, in spite of his official administrative leave, was still the nominal head of homicide, and a cop inside out. He had known she would probably try something like this devil's trade, but there was still the moment before it was irrevocably done. The temptation to let it go – he didn't have to take it out all the way…

He suddenly felt clammy, sick with the portent of it.

'We'll talk about the possibility of a deal later, but no guarantees. I want you clear on that. You either go with me to Kevin Shea right now or I take you downtown. And if I do that, it's beyond the control of either of us. You're charged with murder and it can't be undone. Or' – he pointed a finger – 'or I take you out to Kezar Pavilion, where you might do a little good. It's your decision, Loretta. You decide.'

Her bluff called, she hesitated, took in a breath, then crossed the foyer to the door. 'I'll tell him I'm driving over with you.'

Glitsky went to make his phone call to Wes Farrell.

72

In response to the four outbreaks of interracial scuffling and five serious injuries in the last half hour, the National Guard had moved into positions of closer conformity with the proposed march route, and the trucks with their troops had closed off all traffic and were lining the streets on either side of Golden Gate Park. New arrivals wanting to join the march were going to have to leave their cars blocks away and breach this wall and its security measures as they walked in, and hundreds were doing just that. In the park's panhandle the tent city took up the center and the tide of people would in theory flow around the roped-off living areas.

Special Agent Margot Simms – who had elected not to act in concert either with the San Francisco police or the National Guard – had her driver pull to the side of the road only four blocks from Kevin Shea's apartment. She looked down the hill at the flood of people moving toward Kezar, the troops, the stalled traffic.

How to get through that? Well she was with the FBI, that was how. She wasn't going to put her own men at risk, and she was going to do her job, which was apprehend Kevin Shea, by force if necessary. She gave the order to circumvent the sawhorses that closed off the streets and head down, past the Pavilion, to her destination. She did not give a good goddamn what, or who, might be in the way. She knew that Wes Farrell, the lawyer, was going to be facing the same problem she was, and he would have no identification to flash to get him by this hurdle.

They were still ahead.

The car crept through the pedestrians, several of them whacking the roof, the hood. Two blocks in three-and-a-half minutes – then they were stopped by a couple of teenaged National Guardsmen, rifles out and jittery.

Simms got out of the front seat, held up her badge, identifying herself. The two boys – one with a black nametag reading 'Morgan,' the other a thin, hawk-faced boy whose tag read 'Escher,' looked at one another, and Morgan said, 'Yes, ma'am?'